


To Feel Useful is Better Than Nothing at All

by LizzieHarker



Series: The Only Truth We Know [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Hawkeye (Comics)
Genre: Assassin Clint Barton, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Clint Barton POV, Clint and Natasha are BFFs, Gen, He's been working since he left, Hurt Clint Barton, Taking out Hydra is a big job, The Arrowsverse, and some coffee, but mostly he needs his Natasha, minor violence but nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 02:20:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14154558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzieHarker/pseuds/LizzieHarker
Summary: “Hey,” she answered. God, it was good to hear her voice. Silverware clinked in the background, laughter and snatches of conversation adding to the din, two familiar voices catching  him off guard. Wherever Nat was, she was there with Bucky and Steve. His longing for home hit harder.Nothing for it now. Clint lounged against the headboard, pouring the easy grin he wore into his voice. He meant to tell her he needed information, meant to tell her he could wait until she was somewhere private. Instead, he replied, “Hey there, buttercup.”On the other end, Natasha excused herself, the voices fading until she stood either in a back room or outside. The next time she spoke, Nat's voice was urgent, and, if Clint weren't mistake, it held the tiniest note of shaking. “How badly are you injured? Tell me where you are. I'll take a quinjet and be there as fast as I can.---Set afterTell Me Nothing but Lies





	To Feel Useful is Better Than Nothing at All

Turns out there weren’t many Hydra scientists left. Funny, them being a dying breed, and Clint having too many arrows. Well, at least no one had to share. Exterminating the rats almost made up for the infuriating lack of intel on his brother, Barney. _Almost_. Ever since “C. Barton” hit his radar, Clint had devoted his efforts to tracking Barney down, to no avail. But Clint could bide his time; he could be patient, and five months didn’t hold a candle to Clint’s record of waiting out the elder Barton. The Long Game had been going for years and sooner or later, he’d smoke Barney out from whatever rock he’d crawled under. 

Of course, he’d prefer sooner. 

Barney’s end game never changed and there was no way in hell he’d pin his latest scheme on Clint, revenge or otherwise. Being at odds with his big brother was practically a family tradition, and really, Barney’s petty vengeance hadn’t surprised him but damn this took . 

All because Barney had shown up in a cheap FBI suit and offered Clint a job. Because Clint declined. 

And then murdered the creep his brother’d been protecting because operating a sex-trafficking ring was vile and didn't warrant security, it warranted an arrow in the eye socket. 

_Oops_.

Clint plucked the last of his arrows out of the now-former Hydra tech and shoved the body out of the chair, claiming the seat before the computer. He had this mission down to an art: take out the guards, torture the higher-ups for intel, ransack the computers, and pick off whoever might be left. This one, though, would be different. If this didn’t pan out, the whole plot hit a dead end. He’d been through multiple countries, carving a path of destruction the remnants of Hydra couldn’t fail to see.

Clint smirked. Not that there was anyone left to witness the glory. Unease flickered in the back of his mind, the question of what came next. He’d run out of victims to beat, bases to destroy, and bad guys to terrorize. If he didn’t get _something_ on Barney, he’d have to regroup. 

He’d have to go home.

A shudder ran through him. He couldn’t go home, not until he—

Fingers striking the keys, Clint rifled through the database, alternately searching for record of his brother and doctoring files on the Winter Soldier when he found them. Getting Hydra off Bucky’s trail ranked as high as finding Barney. Thanks to him, Hydra had gotten wind of Barnes’s whereabouts in the first place. Clint clenched his jaw; not only had Barney put his friends in danger for a futzing payday, he’d dragged Clint’s name through the mud doing it. Everything had been fine, Clint had been happy, and Barney had ruined it, broken his family--

Without hesitation, Clint put a fist through the computer screen, the database as empty as the others had been. All Clint wanted was to punch his brother in the face a couple hundred times, was that so much to ask?! He shoved the system off the table, the crash and shatter sending a delighted tingle through his blood. Well if he couldn't have what he wanted, what harm was a little wanton destruction?

Plucking bolts from his quiver, Clint stalked through the base, planting explosion-arrows with reckless abandon. One less thing he’d have to explain to TSA. The bombs went off, one after another, and Clint basked in the heat at his back, the way the walls crumbled as he walk out, the panicked screams of the last few men he’d left not-quite dead.

Not a bad way to end a five-month rampage.

All too soon, the anxiety for the next mission pressed against him, the need to act. That smoldering pile of rubble had been the last of the Hydra bases. Exhaustion weighed his shoulders, dragging him down. He’d come no closer to the endgame and he’d run out of leads. All Clint wanted was to go home. 

No, not yet. He had work to do, and he was the only one to do it. He had to be useful, he—

There had to be something else, someone else—

Natasha. 

If anyone could help him now, it’d be Natasha. Her web spanned farther than Clint imagined and if there were strings left to pull, she’d be the one to ask. 

He waited until he'd re-entered the safe house before pulling out his burner phone. Nat had one phone number, specifically for him, and she always answered. A pang lit through him after the first ring: he missed her. Her company, her support, her tiny smiles, the comfort of her presence. The line connected before the second ring ended.

“Hey,” she answered. God, it was good to hear her voice. Silverware clinked in the background, laughter and snatches of conversation adding to the din, two familiar voices catching him off-guard. Wherever Nat was, she was there with Bucky and Steve. His longing for home hit harder.

Nothing for it now. Clint lounged against the headboard, pouring the easy grin he wore into his voice. He meant to tell her he needed information, meant to tell her he could wait until she was somewhere private. Instead, he replied, “Hey there, buttercup.”

On the other end, Natasha excused herself, the voices fading until she stood either in a back room or outside. The next time she spoke, Nat's voice was urgent, and, if Clint weren't mistake, it held the tiniest note of shaking. “How badly are you injured? Tell me where you are. I'll take a quinjet and be there as fast as I can.”

Clint chuckled. “No worse than usual, and nothing I can’t handle. Sorry to interrupt. Sounded like you were at dinner.” He paused. “How’s Buck? And Steve?”

“They’re all right,” she said, words carefully measured. “Clint, if you’re not injured, what do you need?”

His humor vanished. “I need to find my brother.”

Natasha’s tone deepened. “I thought you got rid of him. You didn’t say he was back.”

“We don’t usually need words, Nat.”

Again, she paused. Clint hadn’t been flippant; they really didn’t need words, the two of them. They’d found a second language in glances and touches that defied the need for spoken communication. From the moment they met, they recognized in each other a match. Nat had always been Clint’s other half, his person, his safety net, his dearest friend. 

Of course, it took her no time to decipher, to read between the lines.

“Clint, whatever mission you’re running has ended. You need to regroup; more than that, you need to let go. Come back. You have a home here in New York. You have friends who miss you, family who love you. A dog that needs you.”

It was the benediction he’d asked for, but suddenly Clint felt off-kilter.

“I don’t . . . I—“ he stammered. Clint felt like he’d been submerged in mud, an now the quiet dark refused to release him. He didn’t embrace it often, didn’t let himself sink into that cool comfort, back into the man he'd had been before he’d chosen to be someone else. That dark space let him forget. He’d called Natasha not to hear her voice, not to ask for information, but to cast a life line. After half a year, the tide had risen too high.

Clint couldn’t kick hard enough to stay above water and remember how to be the man he wanted to be.

“Where are you now?”

Scramble, reach, grasp. “Safe house.”

“Good. Clint, listen. You’re not working. You’re not on someone else’s payroll, not on the clock. The mission is over. Do you understand?”

Clint exhaled, the air rattling his lungs. Hold tight. “Yes.”

“Change out of your clothes. Put on something causal. Jeans, a shirt, sneakers. Get something to eat. Go be around people. Socialize. You know how to do this. Show someone a photo of Lucky.”

Lucky. Clint had a photo of him in his wallet. Of them together. Natasha had taken it one afternoon, told Clint to keep it safe. She’d printed it on nice paper and everything. That one-eyed dog had saved him more times than Clint could count, and just about everyone loved him. Clint kept that photo tucked away, just in case.

He rummaged through his things for his wallet, hands trembling as he found the photo. He unfolded it: a guy who looked like him played with a yellow lab, a bright smile on his face. Slowly, the memory leaked through bit by bit. The warmth of the sunlight on his back, Clint laughing, Lucky laying on him, licking his face after Clint took the ball back to throw it. 

The darkness receded, inch by inch.

“Still with me?”

He’d forgotten the phone pinned between his ear and shoulder. The press on his in-ear hearing aids hurt. Feeling that pain was good. “Yes. Yeah. Coming back.”

“Do you need me to come get you?”

He shook his head, remembered Nat couldn’t see him, and said, “No. I . . . I can do this. Just . . . keep taking. Please.”

Natasha’s tone remained casual, but Clint heard the worry beneath it. “Are you sure? What have you been up to?”

By his estimation, Natasha had been absent for close to fifteen minutes. Much longer, and the boys—or Sam, Sam was probably there, too—might go looking for her. The ache he’d been ignoring for months grew worse. Natasha and Sam were out with Bucky. And Steve. 

And Clint wanted to go home. If there was still a home to go back to. But he’d failed the mission, and without the intel on Barney, how could he prove his worth? That he—

“Clint?” The fear in Natasha’s voice shook him to the core.

He had to tell her. There were no secrets between them. “I’ve . . . I made a mistake and I’m trying to fix it. I need to be useful, Natasha. To prove—“

“You are useful, Clint. You’re a good man, and you don’t need to prove that to anyone.”

He swallowed. He did need to prove it. He felt it as an agonizing need, a dagger between his ribs. The dark fell away at last, leaving him raw and reeling. Desperate. And with that desperation came the fear of losing everything he’d worked so hard to maintain. Being good meant keeping his home, his family, his life. Being useful meant they’d let him stick around, maybe even _want_ him there.

Natasha hadn’t stopped speaking, her tone gentle, but firm. “You chose to save me when no one else would. You’re good, you see the good in the others, and now it’s time to come home.”

“I can’t,” he said, forcing the words out. Natasha would understand. She had to understand. He had to be useful. Had to be good. Had to prove he was _good_. “I need to fix this. I didn’t find him, I failed the mission, I need your help.” _Please, please understand. I know you do_.

“And I’m giving it to you. I’m here for you, and I’ll always have your back, Clint, but you need to talk to me. Why are you hunting Barney?”

The words stalled. “Because . . . he led Hydra to Bucky. And Steve. It’s my fault Buck was taken again. Barney retaliated and I have to find him, Natasha. He’s my responsibility.”

Nat slowed her speech. Clint imagined her eyes narrowing. “He is _not_ your responsibility. We’ll find Barney, and then I’ll break his legs. What happened with Steve?”

That invisible dagger twisted, pushing deeper. Clint doubled over, bracing against the pain. He'd built a life out of nothing, and now it was all at risk. Clint wasn't a nice man, not the walking disaster, not the guy with the easy grin and a bad joke. Clint winced. There were no secrets between him and Natasha, not now, not ever. “They know.”

His imaginary Natasha’s brow wrinkled. “They know what?”

“About me. About everything.”

God, it hurt. Worse than the injuries he hadn’t let heal properly, worse than the new ones. His secrets had been dragged from him, tossed out on display, his past and his present up for debate and judgement. He wrapped an arm around his belly, as if it could safeguard against the assault that wasn’t happening.  
Steve had shone light on the things best left hidden, had looked at Clint and seen not his teammate or his friend, but someone untrustworthy. A threat. Clint meant it when he told Bucky he understood; Steve would do anything to keep Bucky safe, and damn it, Buck deserved a good life. Clint wasn't angry, but history had an awful habit of repeating itself or whatever, and though it hadn’t come to physical blows, Steve’s doubt sucker punched him nonetheless.

On the other end of the line, Natasha’s fury escalated; he heard it in the slow exhale against the speaker. He didn't need to explain. She always understood. “That wasn’t right.”

“I need to prove I’m good,” Clint whispered. “I’m useful. I can do this for them. I owe them. For disrupting their lives.”

“No, you don’t. You owe them nothing.” Clint sucked in a breath through his teeth. “You are good, Clint. You are good, and you are worthy. You deserve to keep the life you built. You deserve to relax, to take time for yourself.” Her voice softened, just for him. “Grab some dinner, or breakfast, wherever you are, and then hit the beach. Get some sun and one of those fruity drinks with the little umbrellas. Home’s waiting for you when you’re ready.”

Clint nodded. She was right; Nat always was. He needed a vacation, a real one. Time to regroup, time to let go. Breathing came a bit easier now. He let the tension go from his shoulders. “Okay.”

“Okay. I’ll take care of things here.”

“Don’t. Nat, I’m not—This was my choice. I needed to help.”

“You need to look after yourself,” Natasha answered. “Only reason I’m not already halfway around the world to find you is because you’re starting to sound more like the man you are.”

A smile twitched at Clint’s lips. “Thanks, Nat. I’ll see you when I get back.” He could try a joke. His missed jokes. “Maybe I’ll learn to surf, come back ripped and sunkissed.”

“Don't be an idiot.” She sounded exasperated.

Success. He smiled at the affection in her voice, knowing an eye roll accompanied her words. He loved her, too.

“Everything will work out,” she said. “Go. Put yourself first. You deserve it. Just try not to get eaten by a shark.” That pulled a chuckle out of him. “You have to place to land, Clint. Remember that.”

Most of the tension Clint carried eased, save a tiny knot behind his ribs. The beach sounded great; most of all, it sounded warm, and now that Clint had stopped running, stopped working, he realized how tired he was of being cold. “Beach it is,” he said, sounding more like himself.

“Put on your sunblock. Bring me a shell,” she answered. “And I’m serious about the shark.”

Clint saluted her. She’d know, even if she couldn’t see him. “Don’t get burned or eaten. You got it.”

Nat stalled. “Not even a light maiming, Barton.” 

Ah, futz, he really musta freaked her out. The last time he’d called her 'buttercup', he’d been bleeding out. Oh shit, she’d probably thought he was dying when he answered. “Yes, ma’am,” Clint promised. “I’ll text you when I get home.”

“You better,” she said, then disconnected.

Clint held the burner phone to his heart for a moment. Even when he had nothing, he had Natasha. And he did feel better, a bit lighter, a bit more in control. He stripped out of his gear and pulled on jeans and a shirt, feeling more like himself by the minute as he started packing up the safe house. 

 

*

 

The second Clint stepped onto the beach, he felt more like himself than he had in months. He’d never been one for resort vacationing—too fancy, too many people, and you had to actually wear clothes to cash in on the free breakfast and what the futz was up with that?—but the sounds of laughter and the crash of the ocean, paired with the sand beneath his bare toes and the warm sun against his skin . . . yeah, this was gonna be nice.

He unfolded his chair and tossed himself into it, taking in the sights. The first of his delightfully fruity drinks arrived, and as Clint sipped and watched the tide roll in, he let go of the last of his tension. Five months was a long time to be someone else. Time to get back to being himself.

**Author's Note:**

> HE'S BACK! 
> 
> Well, kinda. I'm bumping the timeline forward because 1) I can, and 2) I'm impatient. Let's be real here, I didn't even last a month with this whole "I'm going to update maybe once a month" thing. Yeah no. Anyway.
> 
> Now back to your irregularly scheduled 'verse.
> 
> \-----
> 
> Follow me [on Tumblr!](http://lizzieharker.tumblr.com/)


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